


Red Oak

by LaughableLament



Series: Comment Ficlets [11]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Ghosts, Halloween
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-31
Updated: 2015-10-31
Packaged: 2018-04-29 02:48:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5113355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaughableLament/pseuds/LaughableLament
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They say the veil to the other side grows thin on Halloween. They say oak trees hold powerful magic. They say you never get over your first love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Red Oak

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this prompt](http://citrusjava.livejournal.com/218342.html?thread=812518#t812518) on the SPN Halloween comment meme. Cross-posted.

A dusty book of Appalachian lore sets Sam’s pulse racing.

_Come All Hallows Eve, ye jes hunt up that ol red oak down the holler. The one what dont go green of a summer nor drop its leaves come the fall. Brang wi ye a halfpint o whisky and sacks o salt and flour, and somethin what belonged to the one ye lost._

All these years it’s gnawed him. Curdled in the back of his mind.

_“I know what happened to your girlfriend!”_

Damn random plane crash fetish demon fucked him up in ways even Lucifer never quite managed.

_“Even now, she's burning!”_

He figures the hard part’ll be talking Dean into a trip to Kentucky.

**

“Meth hogs.”

“Come again?”

“Basically regular wild pigs, mutated from drinking meth lab runoff.”

“So, no bacon then.”

A chuckle. “No, I-uh, wouldn’t recommend it.”

Dean stands. “Where to?”

“Harlan, Kentucky.”

“Sweet! Like _Justified_. Gimme ten.”

“You got it, Boyd.”

“Boyd? Pft. I’m totally Raylan.”

Not so hard after all.

**

The story is bullshit. One article on some goofball Haunted Kentucky website, no sources, no corroboration. Speaks to how stir crazy Dean’s been ever since…

Couple of days of locals looking at them like _they’re_ the ones drinking the meth lab runoff and Dean’s ready to call it quits.

“Let’s give it the night.” Yawn. Stretch. “We head out in the morning we won’t have to sleep in the car.”

Narrow eyes, but “All right.” Dean ditches his Fed suit, grabs the keys. “Don’t wait up.”

**

Two a.m. Dean stumbles face-first into his mattress. Go time.

Siri takes him out of town, within a mile and a half of the coordinates the Men of Letters recorded. After that he’s on foot. Flashlight cuts a cone through the black. Steep slopes and wet leaves make the going treacherous. He toes around in the underbrush for sturdy roots, braces his hands on heavy trunks.

He’s a lot more concerned about snakes than meth hogs.

Up and over a little rise there’s a clearing. Would have seen the oak’s red leaves a mile back in the daylight. Its neighbors thrust bare branches toward the stars, but this tree – must be three hundred years old or more, the trunk’s so thick – carries a full canopy.

He unshoulders his pack and digs out the prescribed ingredients. From his wallet, a golden curl tied with thin red ribbon. Been there, tucked behind Jess’s old high school senior picture since they changed their relationship statuses. That was, how many wallets ago?

He pours a circle with the salt and sets the flour inside. Drinks a sip of whiskey and drains the rest into the ground. Lays the lock of Jess’s hair on the flour sack. Waits. Prays.

Rustling. Gibbous moon high overhead lights the clearing. Fluttering white cloth appears, fritzes, then –

“Sam?”

His teeth clench, eyes squeeze shut. If he looks, if she’s burned, if she’s black-eyed…

“Sam.”

A sharp exhale. Somehow he’d forgotten the exact pitch of her _don’t-fuck-with-me_ voice. He faces her.

“Jess.”

“What’s going on? I was at the party where we first met and I – ” Her head tilts. “Sam you look…” Her mouth falls open, recognition breaking. “I’ve been dead a long time, haven’t I?”

He chokes up, eyes stinging. “Yeah.” He steps toward her, breathes deep. All he smells is the woods.

Jess walks the inside of the salt circle. Chin up, she takes in the mountains, the moon. “Where are we?”

“Kentucky.”

The smile he once missed like a phantom limb spreads across her features. “Too bad. There’d be a _Field of Dreams_ joke here if it was Iowa.”

Soft laughter. “There’s no mountains in Iowa, babe.”

Jess shrugs. Looks him over. “So. You got a plan here? Some deep question about, I dunno, the meaning of life? What happens when we die?”

He swallows hard. “I-uh.” Drags a hand across his chin. “No. Tell the truth I really didn’t think this was gonna work.”

She laughs, wide-mouthed and honest. “Of course you didn’t. This isn’t like you, Sam. Dabbling in the mysterious. I didn’t think you even believed in an afterlife.”

At this rate he’s gonna grind his teeth down to the nubs. “Jess? Are you okay? Are you happy?”

She gets serious as she studies him. “Yeah.” Her forehead crinkles. “I mean, it’s weird. I knew I was dead, but I don’t… You texted me. Said you’d be home soon, and then Brady came over and…” Another shrug. “Then I was back at that party, remember? Sig Ep. End of the World.”

She doesn’t remember. Tears well up and fall in relief. After Adam…

“Sam? What happened to me?”

He freezes.

He can’t…

“You slipped.” The lie rolls out easy. “Hit your head. Brady tried…”

She nods, lips pressed to a line. “It’s okay, Sam. Well. It sucks, but…” Eyes narrow. “How ’bout you? Are _you_ okay? ’Cause, I gotta say, you calling me here, it’s – ”

“Stalkery?” His smile is thin. He knows it.

She doesn’t call him out though. “Worrying.”

God, she hasn’t changed. Still looking out for him. Real smile, this time. “Don’t. Please. I’m good.” He drops his chin, cuts his eyes up toward her. “Curiosity just got the better of me, I guess.”

Jess folds her arms, fakes stern. “You know about curiosity and the cat, right?”

A chuckle. And under his breath, “But he has nine lives, apparently.”

Her brows draw down. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

He spreads his palms. “Nothing!”

“Uh-huh.”

“Seriously! I just thought we were swapping clichés.”

She shakes her head. Fritzes. “Sam?”

“I think our time is up.”

“Oh.”

“It’s good to see you.”

One last smile, and “I love you, Sam. Be hap – ”

**

He gets back to the room with the rising sun. Dean’s had his four hours, and then some. If he’s busted, well…

Snoring greets him as he eases through the door, balancing grease-stained bags and coffee.

Dean pushes up to his elbows. “Breakfast?”

“Just how you like it. Extra bacon.”

“Sweet.”


End file.
